


Youth

by Wind_Waves



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M, Power Dynamics, implied ageism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6296773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Waves/pseuds/Wind_Waves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy doesn't think he'll get attached to the older agent he's replacing.  The ex-Galahad is old, exhausted, and has just been forcefully retired, expelled from the city to meet his fate.  But just after he meets the man, Eggsy gets other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilusLocke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilusLocke/gifts).



> Written for a prompt at the Dark Kingsman Block Party on tumblr: 
> 
> "After the apocalypse, youth and ablebodiedness are valued above most everything else. Retirements are solemn affairs, and individual wealth tends to not matter as much as people would wish. A youth named Eggsy replaces an intelligence agent and rather than kicking him out to the curbside, as is all too common, decides to keep him by subsidizing his retirement by employing Harry as a mentor and “bedwarmer”."
> 
> If you needed any warning of where this might be heading... yeah.

A man- the previous Galahad, is standing in the foyer when Eggsy comes up to the door. From what he can tell, the place seems pretty nice, the kind of place where the house cost a fortune and then the furnishings twice that. It’ll be Eggsy’s soon, but ex-Galahad looks like he belongs there, framed in the open door and dressed in a beautifully tailored suit. 

He’s in the middle of plucking his hat off the hook, a scarf draped over his arm. His suitcase sits next to him, waiting. If his wrinkles didn’t betray his age, he might look like any young nouveau riche preparing to leave for a holiday. Slim and straight-backed and gorgeous. 

To Eggsy, it seems as if the man had foreseen this moment and spent weeks preparing. In a few minutes, he will be out on the streets, blending into the groups of other elderly men and women leaving the city for their own enclaves beyond the walls. Life out there is the furthest thing from kind, and in a few decades, Eggsy will probably be joining them. If he doesn’t die first. 

As if sensing Eggsy’s thoughts, the man looks up, his face creasing in a reassuring smile. As small and slight as it is, he seems genuine, which is a damn sight better than any of the other middle-aged posh fucks at the table. “Mr. Unwin. I understand I am to offer you congratulations.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I’m sure you will do well as Galahad.” 

Eggsy shrugs. The man is probably being kind. Eggsy’s never seen him before in his life. Not, of course, that that means much. “I dunno. I think with your record you would have been good for at least another five years.” 

The smile becomes strained. “Perhaps. It wasn’t my decision to make.” He glances around briefly, eyes pausing on a sheaf of papers scattered across a table in the hall. “Forgive me. I’ll need a few more minutes.” 

“Nah, take your time.” Eggsy leans against the doorway, his own suitcase behind him on the steps. Arthur had moved pretty fucking swiftly, and it’s obvious that the previous Galahad was caught at least a bit off guard, for all his preparation. 

He watches the man move through the home, tidying up the clutter and sweeping paperwork to the bin. He’s graceful and economical, with hardly a movement wasted. Not like the old men that Eggsy knows, who are slow and tremble occasionally and are soft and flabby in the middle. 

No. This is Harry Hart. The previous Galahad, with a 95 percent mission success rate and one of the highest kill counts of Kingsman. Up until now, he took on missions at the same rate as the younger Kingsman, and been just as- if not more- effective. But at fifty-five, he was simply too old for the table and keeping him longer would have been, in Arthur’s words, “breaking precedent.” 

What a load of fucking horseshit. 

Eggsy didn’t have a posh accent like the rest of them, but he could read between the lines. He’d bet everything and his left foot that Hart was too good- sowing doubt, raising questions, and it was just convenient to replace him too when the old Lancelot died. 

It’s a shame. Hart is handsome, and still well fit. Eggsy watches Hart wash the dishes in the sink- polite and considerate to the last. 

He thinks about a man like Hart disappearing into the enclaves, working for his food and rooms and wasting away under the sun, his abilities withering away, useless. Forgotten. Eggsy thinks about what a man like Hart has to offer, his skills and experience and- yes- his body. A twist of shame and dark, vicious pleasure burns quietly in his gut at the thought of someone like Hart, someone who might have looked down at him before, kneeling beside his bed. 

Yeah, that’ll do. 

Eggsy steps inside with his suitcase, and when Hart comes back, gloves on and buttoned up in a greatcoat with his hat on his head, clearly ready to leave, Eggsy kicks the door shut. It swings smoothly, slowing down just before it hits the frame and closing with a gentle click. 

Hart pauses, wariness flitting across his face. “Mr. Unwin?” 

Eggsy raises his chin, challenging. “Do you want to stay here?” 

There’s a pause as Hart opens his mouth, then closes it. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You heard me. Do you wanna stay? Yeah or no, it ain’t that hard.” 

It’s kind of nice, Eggsy realizes, to see the man’s stoic façade shattered. Make no mistake: to the average person Hart still looks pretty closed off. But Eggsy can see the conflict play out on his face in glorious technicolor, confusion and apprehension and the slightest edge of fear touching Hart’s face in one breathtaking moment. 

Then it vanishes, leaving Eggsy bereft. Hart’s not finished yet, though. He looks down, his jaw working silently, then glances up to meet Eggsy’s eyes with his own. “Yes,” he says, so low that Eggsy has to strain to hear it. “I would like to, if you permit it.” 

“Right then,” Eggsy says, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “First things first: get your stuff back inside, an’ then we’re going to city hall.” 

And, wonder of wonders: Hart does, without even a sideways look. 

When he returns from the depths of the home, his face is back on, cool and calm and distantly polite. He flicks a brief glance at Eggsy’s suitcase, sitting abandoned in the foyer, and turns away to smooth his hat back down on the hook. 

As he follows Eggsy to the door, a neat half-step behind, his hand drifts to the umbrella stand, closing on nothing. 

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. 

“Apologies,” Hart says, a wry mournful half-twist to his mouth. “Habit.” 

Eggsy lets it go with a shake of his head. They’ll be breaking a lot more of those soon enough. 

\----  
The city hall is pretty much just like any other government building Eggsy’s had the misfortune of being in. It dresses itself as a Greek temple, desperately trying to relive the glory days while also being desperately dull and ordinary on the inside, office chairs and cubicles as far as the eye can see. 

He’s in one of those cubicles now, bored out of his damn mind. 

“Relationship?” The woman across the desk asks, popping the ‘p’ with lips the color of bubblegum. Bright fuckin’ pink they are, and Eggsy can’t help but wonder if it’s deliberate. Draw all the attention to her mouth, full and luscious and youthful, and soon enough people will forget about everything else; the tiny lines around her mouth, how her neck is just starting to sag.

Or maybe she just likes pink. Her blazer, exactly the same color of pink but impossibly brighter, leaves little afterimages in his eyes whenever he stares at it too long and then blinks. 

“None,” Eggsy says. 

“No?” she says. “He’s not your father?” 

“Nope.” 

Her eyes flick over to where Hart sits straight-backed on an unsteady office chair, and drag across Hart’s body, up and down in a slow contemplative glide. “Why on earth are you keeping him around then?” 

Eggsy fixes her with his best bored stare, the kind that Roxy uses to make someone feel small in .5 seconds flat. “Personal assistant.” 

Both her eyebrows go up, but thankfully she’s smart enough to her ideas to herself. Her pen goes scratching across the form. After a few moments she scribbles her name on it with the same sort of perfunctory gesture that all government workers seem to develop after a month or so, finishing it with a flourish of her wrist. She slides it over to Hart. “Sign here.” 

Hart does so, hand producing a neat, calligraphic scrawl. 

“Now you,” she says, pushing the sheet towards Eggsy. Hart silently passes him the pen. 

He scribbles his name on it. There. Done, as binding as if Eggsy put the chain around Hart’s neck himself. 

The woman sweeps up the form with a flick of her fingers, and nods with satisfaction. 

“Good. Wrist please, Mr. Hart.” 

Hart puts out his left hand, the lady locks a grey plastic band around his wrist, and that’s that. In just under two hours, they’re stepping back into the bright sun outside of city hall, Hart with a brand-new bracelet and Eggsy’s bank balance significantly smaller. It’ll fill back up quickly, with his salary from Kingsman, but fucking hell. Keeping an old person in the city costs. 

It’s worth it, he thinks, stepping back into the car. 

Hart is silent as he slips into the passenger seat, and stays silent for most of the trip back. When Eggsy glances over, he can see Hart’s hands folded over each other, his thumb and index finger rubbing together in quiet contemplation. 

Eggsy’s making the final turn into the mews when Harry speaks. “Mr. Unwin,” he begins. 

“Call me Eggsy. Unwin reminds me of my dad.” 

“…Eggsy, then. Why did you choose to sponsor my stay?” 

Eggsy grins. “Why not?” 

“Forgive me, but I don’t believe you are so altruistic as to spend extortionate amounts of money on an old man you barely know out of the goodness of your heart,” Hart says. 

The car’s engine subsides to a low purr and halts as Eggsy turns the key and pulls it out of the ignition. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But if you think all I’m gettin’ out of this is an old man puttering around the house, you’re plain wrong.” 

“You’d be better off paying a housekeeper to come in from the outside in that case.” 

“Bruv, I don’t need the cleaning to be done that badly.” 

Hart’s mouth quirks, like he’s not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. “Call me Harry, please.” 

Eggsy shrugs. “Sure, whatever you want.” 

They get out of the car. Just inside the door, Hart says: “You never answered my question.” 

“Well,” Eggsy says, “’M not quite sure yet.” He’s feeling a bit peckish, so food seems pretty appealing. “Where’s the kitchen?” 

“Upstairs,” Hart says from where he’s hanging up his coat. 

He trails Eggsy up the stairs, and just on the right is the kitchen, nice and shiny and probably full of things Eggsy doesn’t know the name of, much less know how to use. “Can you cook?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then let’s start there, yeah? Make dinner for us. And tell me about Kingsman while you’re at it.” 

Hart’s face is so blank when he heads for the fridge Eggsy almost wants to ask if he’s alright. But that’s a stupid question. 

No. Hart’s not alright. It has to be deeply weird for him, cooking and staying in a place where he has to shift the mental possessive from mine to his. 

When Eggsy looks back up, Hart is tying an apron around his narrow waist, his jacket and- are those shoulder holsters?- draped over a nearby chair. From the tops of the leather holsters, Eggsy catches a glimpse of sleek, gleaming metal. 

Seems like even when he was planning on leaving the city to pretend at being a retiring senior citizen, Hart couldn’t let some things go. 

“What are you making?” 

“Pasta… and possibly some green beans, if there’s any in the freezer.” Hart’s lips curve into a rueful smile. “I never had much food in the pantry, unless I was on medical leave- there wasn’t any point, otherwise.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

Hart starts the pasta in a pot of boiling water while the green beans bubble away on the stove. After a few minutes, he comes back, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, gaze distant. Finally, he meets Eggsy’s eyes with his own. “What did you want to know about Kingsman?” 

“Anything.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.” 

This might be a long conversation. Eggsy looks down at the table, with its gleaming white tablecloth and silver settings and polished, antique wooden chairs. He settles for lounging against a doorframe. Hart’s eyes track his every movement. “Anybody who bothered you?” 

“No-one in particular.”

“Not even Arthur?” 

Hart purses his lips. “You’re full of surprises. I admit that while we had our… problems, it never affected our working relationship. At least as far as I’m aware. I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about.” 

“I might now,” Eggsy says dryly, gesturing at Hart in his apron.

“Yes, well- he might be rude to you, but not to your face.” 

“Like that’s much better,” Eggsy scoffs. 

“Arthur’s hardly the one you want to be worrying about. He can’t do anything but make your missions mildly uncomfortable, and even he isn’t foolish enough to throw away good agents on petty spite.” 

“Threw you away, didn’t he.” 

Hart pauses for a beat. “It’s flattering that you consider me a good agent.” 

“You’re one of the best.” 

Hart blinks up at him, wide-eyed, harmless-looking, and maybe a bit surprised. “I was,” he corrects mildly.

“I didn’t think being retired meant you lost your skills,” Eggsy retorts. “Seriously, what the fuck were you doing with the gun in your holster, then?” 

There is a long pause. Hart twists the towel idly in his hands, swiping it against his already dry palm. Back and forth. Back and forth. Eggsy shifts against the doorway, uncomfortable. It goes on long enough that for a moment Eggsy thinks Hart won’t answer. But then:

“Eggsy,” he says. His voice is low and quiet. “I have associated Kingsman for nearly my entire life. My parents took me all over the world- travelling, learning new languages, cultures. My father taught me how to use a gun as soon I was old enough to hold it properly. At eighteen, I was a trainee. When I was twenty-two, they made me an official agent, and at twenty-five, my parents retired and left for the enclaves. I couldn’t have brought them back even if I begged. All I have ever known is Kingsman,” he says, as even and flat as if he was reading off a grocery list. 

A slow curl of dread unfurls in Eggsy’s stomach, and he watches a smile spread across Hart’s face: gently, slowly, softly. It’s a blank sort of smile that doesn’t even come close to his eyes, cold and terrifying. 

“Eggsy. What, exactly, did you think I was going to do with that gun?”

Eggsy feels his breath stopped in his mouth, lungs frozen in his chest. A million thoughts crowd to the front of his mind, but none of them seem right, vanishing like a rabbit in a snowstorm as soon as he opens his mouth. Hart’s smile fades to a polite grimace, and he looks down at his watch. 

“I should check on the green beans,” he says.

\---

They eat. The pasta melts in his mouth, garlicky and rich. The beans are soft from being frozen, but they’re still tasty. 

After his little speech, Hart avoids any attempts to talk about it with alarming skill. No amount of “So hey, are you okay?” or “Were you depressed?” or “I wanna know if I’m gonna find you in the morning with your brains blown out” makes it past his conversational walls. Admittedly, Eggsy doesn’t try very hard, but it’s clear that Hart wants to discuss exactly none of it. 

Eggsy scrapes his plate clean. Turns out, Hart can cook well after all. 

The dishes clink together as he washes them in the sink. There weren’t enough he’d said, to justify the expense of running the dishwasher. 

By the time Eggsy heads back downstairs, Hart is still puttering around the kitchen, probably cleaning all the counter tops and the giant table or something like that. The first door he sees on the ground floor is the door to the master bedroom- or at least, it’s large and posh enough to be a master bedroom. It is pointedly wide open, while the other doors are politely almost-shut, as if to say: come in, but only if you must. 

Eggsy’s a fuckin’ spy. Yeah, needs must. 

He deposits the suitcase just inside the open door, which gives him enough of a glimpse to see that Hart’s things are still inside. The bed is made neatly, and on the surface everything looks pretty much like a freshly done up hotel suite- bright and airy and reeking of cleaner. Across the room, though, there are still suits hanging in the half-open closet. 

Usually people have enough notice to pack up their things. 

But poking around Hart’s clothing can wait; the rest of the place comes first. He backs out into the hallway, and pushes open the first door on the left. 

This must be Hart’s office. In comparison with the light beige of the hallway, the office is stark bloody red. It would look like a fairly normal, if incredibly fucking fancy, office if it weren’t for the dozens of tabloid papers plastered to the walls. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eggsy mutters. Hart had to have done this himself. 

They’re laid out in pin-straight lines across the wall behind the desk, wrapping around the sides. If he put them all up at once, it must’ve taken hours. 

Eggsy’s half tempted to start taking them down then and there, but something in him rebels at the idea, telling him that he should at least ask Hart first. It doesn’t make any sense. He owns the house now, he should be able to do whatever he wants with it. 

Fuckit. He’ll think about it later. 

There are two closets in the place. One is filled to the brim with servers, which are air-conditioned and humming gently. The other is mostly empty, save for a few boxes stuffed with paperwork and an enormous stack of what looks like picture frames. 

Out of mild curiosity, he nicks the first one off the stack. He nearly drops the damn thing when instead of something normal, like a fucking photograph, he comes face-to face with a neat row of pinned bugs. 

“They’re supposed to be displayed in the hallway,” Hart says from the door. 

Eggsy whips around, heart pounding like mad. “Fucking hell, give a man some warning!” 

Hart just raises an eyebrow. “And you call yourself an agent.” His apron has disappeared somewhere, and he’s left his suit jacket unbuttoned. It drapes loosely around his chest, about as relaxed as Eggsy has ever seen him. 

Eggsy shoves his hands into his pockets, and scowls. “I was looking at your creepy butterflies, cut me some slack.” Hart snuck up on him, and he hadn’t heard a thing. No longer an agent, his fucking arse. 

“Mmm,” Hart says. “They can be unsettling. It’s why I took them down. I thought my successor might appreciate it.” 

“Trust me, I do.” 

“Be careful when you go into the full bath, then,” Hart says mildly. 

“Why? What the fuck’s in there?” 

“Something of great sentimental importance to me.” 

Eggsy eyes the man suspiciously. If it’s anything like what he’s seen, it’s probably either a framed Sun head-liner blown up to epic proportions or a mounted tarantula. He’s not sure which possibility frightens him more. 

“You can even have a look,” Hart suggests lightly. 

Smart-arse. Eggsy goes back into the hallway, this time noticing the fasteners where the bug-frames must have once hung. He glances at them briefly before his gaze swings across the hall. There’s only one other room Eggsy hasn’t been in. 

He pokes it open cautiously, feeling Hart’s amusement radiating behind him, and steps inside. 

Okay. Normal sink, normal bath, normal toilet. Off-white wallpaper with a pattern that looks like it came out of a grandmother’s closet. And just up and to the left- 

“Is that a dead dog?” Eggsy blurts out. 

“It is a taxidermy dog, thank you.” 

Eggsy looks at it, horrified. It’s at exactly the right height for him to stare it in the dead, glassy eyes. “Why the fuck.” 

“His name was Mr. Pickle, and I loved him very much,” Hart says with as much dignity as he can muster. 

It’s not enough to prevent Eggsy from shaking his head and leveling a judging, wide-eyed look at Hart’s face. “You’re mental, you know that?” 

“I’m well aware,” Hart says. “But all agents develop some sort of coping mechanisms eventually, and I- I was at it longer than most.” 

Yeah. For a good thirty years and then some. 

Eggsy can’t even imagine what he’ll be like in thirty years. Will he be as fucked up as Hart? Or just dead? 

Who the hell knows.  
\---


End file.
